


Will

by Taz



Series: The Loves of Lucifer Morningstar [2]
Category: Lucifer (TV), Shakespeare in Love
Genre: Elizabethan Period, Gadzookery, Humor, M/M, References to Shakespeare, Sex, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 03:49:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14417046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taz/pseuds/Taz
Summary: A gloss on Season 3's Episode 6: "Vegas With Some Radish, in which it was hinted that Lucifer (Samael) and William Shakespeare (Will) had enough of a 'thang' for Will to inscribe an original manuscript.





	Will

Thomas Bookman, dwelling in Paul’s Yard at the Sign of the Feather, had assisted but one customer on that wet April morning. Yet he was a man of a sanguine temper and considered things might improve. Sir Henry Harrison, Member of Parliament for King’s Cliffe in Sussex, was browsing the stock of unbound books. Sir Henry, who was an avid bibliophile, was old, slightly deaf, and valued patron, did have an unfortunate habit of dawdling for hours, asking innumerable questions and, on occasion, tiring himself to the point of leaving the shop without completing the purchase of a single volume. That would lead to months of erratic communication and a long delay before his order was completed and paid for.

To avoid such an eventuality, Thomas had retreated to an alcove behind the counter and drawn the curtain. Behind it, he perched on a stool at his desk with a warming pan at his feet and worked on his accounts. He was inking a most satisfactory balance at the bottom of the ledger column when he heard the bell from St. Bowe’s tower announce the eleventh hour. As the last sounding faded, the little bell over the shop’s door gave a silvery jingle in reply.

Thomas set down his pen, arose from his stool, swept the curtain aside, and stepped from the alcove with a broad smile on his face. The smile, long with the words of welcome poised on the tip of his tongue, slipped as he recognized the man whose sodden cape and muddy boots were befouling his clean floorboards.

The newcomer was a man of perhaps thirty, whose long chin had not seen a razor for at least a week, and who appeared to have left his abode in a hurry. As he flung back the flaps of his cape, it addition to spreading the mess further, it could be seen his sleeves were fixed to his doublet in a most haphazard manner, and that only one button of his jerkin had been fastened.

“Will," said Thomas, "I did not expect to see you today.”

“Nor would you, Master Bookman,” said William Shakespeare, “except mice have ate my last scraps of vellum and I need something on which to write.” His boots squelched on his way to the counter. “Sixpence worth of brown, will tide me over, please.”

“I keep telling you a wad of wool soaked in turpentine in the box disgusts them.” Thomas weighed out half a shilling’s worth of brown paper, laid it on the counter, rolled and tied it with string. “There you are, Master Big Spender; I hope we can expect a new play soon.”

“When the Lord above stops pissing on us,” said Will. “And, by the by, if you happen to have the item we discussed the last time I was in, I’ll take it with me.”

“Ah…” Thomas hesitated, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

“I told you I needed it as soon as possible.”

“And I told you that it might be hard to lay hands upon.”

“What’s the delay?”

“Hobsen’s apprentice came asking if I had a copy yesterday,” said Thomas, referring to a well-known teller of tales to the Stationers Company.

“What's to do? You told him you didn’t have one, of course.”

“I did.” Thomas looked in Sir Henry’s direction, keeping his voice down; even old, valuable, slightly deaf customers, especially if they were Members of Parliament, might turn you in the authorities. “Having a copy, much less selling one, is against the law.”

“When has that ever stopped you?” said Will.

Thomas leaned toward him over the counter. “If you please, Will, listen to…”

Sir Henry chose that moment to come up to the counter with a limp volume in his hand.

“How much for this one?” he said, holding it to show the inked title.

“Four shillings, Sir Henry,” said Thomas, loudly.

“That’s an outrage!”

“No, that is Sydney’s _Astrophel and Stella_ printed on the best white laid.” Even more loudly, Thomas said, “It’s on your schedule.”

“How much bound in leather?”

“Five shillings more for goatskin, six for calf, eight if you would like to have it tooled, and nine if it’s to be tooled and gilt.”

“That’s—!”

“Outrageous. I know.” Thomas agreed, patting the six volumes exactly like it that were already stacked on the counter. “Same for each.”

Sir Henry scowled at the book in his hand, and then at the stack, as if he couldn’t imagine how it had grown so tall. Muttering of thieves under his breath, he placed the book on the top of the pile. “Plain brown calf with my arms. No gold, mind you, and make certain that the skins match,” he said. “I’m returning to Sussex, Wednesday next; can they be ready then?”

“You may be certain of it.” Thomas said. Sir Henry turned away and Thomas, in a quiet aside to Will, said, “He does this every year.”

“You’re not the only bookseller in London, you know.” Sir Henry turned back. “I near forgot. My wife and son be asking for some light reading.”

“Any one in particular?”

“Robert Greene. Let’s have some of his coney-catching pamphlets, and any new plays. My son loved that _Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay_.”

“I’m afraid Greene has been dead these two years,” Thomas said. “Done in by the brother of his poxy whore.”

“Marlow then. No one writes them like Marlow.”

“I wish, with all my heart, Sir Henry, that I could oblige you, but he was murdered at Deptford in May.”

“Murdered?” Forgetting himself, Sir Henry made the sign of the cross. “Saint’s preserve us! You’re never going to tell me Thomas Kyd’s gone and died!”

“On the feast of Saint Oswald last.” Thomas nodded. 

“Not the plague!”

“No, he was put to the question, and never recovered.” Thomas shook his head. “A tragedy.”

“Dear Lord, is there a curse on our playwrights? What of Jonson?”

“In Clink Prison, again,” Will interjected, before Thomas could answer. “William Shakespeare is alive, however, although barely. I'm certain your son would love his _Titus Andronicus_.”

“Would he? Thomas, find me this Shankepole’s _Tight Ass_ and add it to my order. I’ll send my man round Wednesday for the parcel.” Sir Henry turned to Will. “You seem a knowledgeable young man; can you suggest any other decent word-smiths?”

Thomas decided that it was time to intervene.

“Will, it’s gone past 11 o’ the clock and you told me you had an appointment in Paul’s walk.”

“I never did.”

“Yes. You did.” Thomas fixed a meaningful eye on Will. “In fact, you had almost finished explaining that Rowley is holding for you something that you very much desire to possess.”

“Is he?”

"Yes." Thomas rolled his eyes heavenward. “That’s what you were about to finish telling me.” 

“The Devil you say!” Will reached for the string bound bundle.

Thomas slapped a hand on top of it. “Sixpence, an’ it please you.”

Will produced a coin warm from the pocket in his breeches, seized the packet of paper, and ran out of the shop.

“You’re welcome,” Thomas called after him. “Have a nice day.”

Once outside, though, Will halted under the overhanging jetties to tuck the paper in the wallet at his belt, and consider his next move.

It had been a blow discovering that all copies had been burned; the complete runs of two different printers. Then he had bethought himself of the manuscript and of kind of men who deal in books.

The rain had slacked, but clouds still obscured the top of Saint Paul’s broken tower and the buttresses and battlements of the great cathedral seemed vague and phantasmal. The south porch wasn’t far from Bookman’s shop but, thanks to a week’s persistent rain, the yard between was a sea of standing water. He could go straight across, which would be the shortest way, or he could go around the well-worn path by Paul’s Chain, which would be the safer way. Either way, his feet were bound to get wetter, and so he started across, looking out for hidden stones, bones, broken glass, and the swollen bodies of drowned rats. He could feel water running between his toes and resolved, as he did whenever it rained, that the next letter home would include a request for Anne to send him a new pair of boots, and never mind the cost.

Once within the cathedral doors, the first thing he did was push his way through a knot of news-mongers gathered around a smoking brazier beneath the tracery of the south wall. He recognized two of Raleigh’s servants among them, in fact most of the faces were familiar to him.

Holding his chapped hands to the brazier to warm them, said, “Good den. What news?”

That was ever the question in Saint Paul’s. High on Ludgate Hill, in the heart of the city, the great cathedral was where one went to learn in what direction the wind blew. Even in the popish past, gossip, business, and affairs of state had drowned out the mass. It was the established custom for those concerned to send an agent, or come themselves, between the hours of 11 and 12 of the clock. There they strolled the nave, collecting the news and sharing it.

“Good den, yourself, Will,” said a white-haired newsy. “When will we see a new play?”

“When the sun comes out.”

“The Queen’s gone to Saint James,” one of Raleigh’s servant revealed. “She refused to see the Spanish ambassador.”

“It’s the only place she can get her knickers dry.”

“You think it’s true, about the Spanish fleet?”

“I don’t know, but Whitgift’s preaching Sunday on Noah and the Lord’s mercy.”

“A sure sign that it will never stop raining,” opined another newsy. “I expect to hear they’ve found the original plans for the arc any day.”

“What? Thanks to a cypher in the Bible?”

“What version?”

“Hist. Mind you neck,” someone said. “The Council’s taking a hard line. Greenwood and Barrowe have been sentenced to hang for sedition.”

There was silence.

No doubt that the Queen’s spymaster had his men planted among the nave walkers, but most of those present were known to each other; after a moment, a newsy up from Chepe Side said, “I heard of a mercer met the Devil on the bridge road in Southwark. Can anyone confirm that tale?”

“I heard the same, except that it happened by the bear pit in Maiden Lane.”

“No, t’was Silver Street, last Monday,” someone piped.

“You lie,” the fair-haired newsy said. “I interviewed the man myself. He told me the Devil walked bang up to him in front of Number Thirteen, and asked directions to The Theatre.”

“How could he know it was the Devil?”

“He was dressed like a gentleman, all in black, and after he told him the way, the Devil thanked him and asked what his heart’s desire was. He said he wished only for a son and heir. The Devil said that he would have three sons and vanished.”

“Next thing you know, three women are each indicting him!”

“And none 's his wife!”

“No, you ass! His wife was pregnant. He already had five daughters, but the very next day she was delivered of three fine boys!”

“So?”

“What idiot wants more squalling mouths to feed?”

“Only Old Iniquity could have known she’d have triplets.”

“’ee’d make a good penny showing them at the fair.”

“Me, I would have asked for three hundred in gold.”

“A thousand pounds!”

“A chest of Spanish emeralds!”

“Ten thousand!”

“Grocer Blount’s daughter’s maidenhead!”

“A full ride at Cambridge for my son!”

“Make it stop raining!”

“Mrs. Blount!”

“Blount’s apprentice! I’d bugger him in a heartbeat!”

Other voices chimed in, laughing and hooting and making their hearts’ desires known, and it seemed a voice in Will’s ear whispered _What is your heart’s desire, Will Shakespeare?_

_A new pair of boots, and the play that’s biting my ass finished._

“Did you say something, Will?”

“What…?” Had he spoken aloud? “Anyone seen Rowley?”

“He’s rating a slot by the transept, these days.”

“I’ll see you later then,” Will said, taking his leave.

Despite recent attempts at regulation, there were stalls between the columns in the nave that sold pamphlets, proclamations, broadsides, and sheets of hot gossip.

He avoided the side-aisles where thieves, where rogues, pimps and their drabble-tail whores skulked in the shadows and made his way through the more respectable crowd—lawyers, newsies, pick-pockets, lesser gentry, and the servants of great lords—parading in the central nave. Great men could be found strolling among them, but it was customary to pretend one did not observer them. One merely noted the fact they were there.

Will wound his way among them. Progress was slowed by the intransigent nature of those who must to stop to ogle some broadsheet seller’s wares or, seeing an old acquaintance, stop to carry on a gossip, irrespective of whose way they were blocking.

Suddenly, a space in the crowd opened, and a man caught Will’s eye. He was so obviously a man of wealth and taste, that Will couldn’t help wondering what lord he was.

Everything about the man—his velvet doublet, his high crowned hat with jeweled band and feather, his hair, his brows, his eyes—was black, everything except the pleated ruff at his throat. No coach wheel, it was delicately turned of the finest lawn, pleated, and finished in blue. The shape of it emphasized the smooth contour of his cheek and chin, and the radiant color brought out the pallor of his skin, and the rosy tint of his lips.

He stood with his hand negligently on the sweeping hilt of a Spanish rapier, engaged in conversation with a man in a surplice over a red gown. As if sensing someone looking, the man in black turned, and scanned the crowd. Many were, indeed, looking at him, but like an arrow shot, his gaze fixed on Will and raked him up and down.

It was exactly as if someone had reached out and touched all the intimate places of his body. A wave of lust, astonishing in its urgency, flood his senses and robbed him of strength. Then the man’s gaze passed on, as did the burning tumult in his senses.

The effect of its passing left him bereft and empty. He was so stupefied that a bag-snatcher might have plucked him clean at that moment. He addressed his back to the column and waited until he was certain he could walk upright. When he dared look round, the man in black had disappeared.

 _Prick that down as something to remember and think on further,_ Will told himself, and went on.

He found Rowley’s stall three columns before the transept. An old soldier, Rowley had left a leg in Flanders, and made a living selling one-sheets, penny broadsides, and road-ballads. It wasn’t much of an installation: two boards on trestles on which the stacks of printed sheets lay, crossing each other. To each end was fixed a frame with cords stretched, from which the most current sheets hung by example.

As Will came upon him, the old soldier was handing a rolled sheet to one of two boys in street singers’ motley. “There you go,” said he. “Very popular at court. Makes all the girls cry.”

Will hung back until the boys had scurried away. “What did they buy?

“ _The Scotch Whore_.” Rowley put a hand to his heart and, in a pleasant tenor, sang. “ _’There was Mary Beaton, and Mary Seaton, and Mary Carmichael and me…’_ ”

“That’s got whiskers on it.”

“Bound to make a comeback, sooner or later.”

“When hell freezes over,” said Will. “Thomas said you had something.”

“I do.” Rowley lay a gray paper parcel on the boards. “If you have the chinks.”

Will’s heart fluttered.

“How much?”

“Twelve shillings.”

“That’s outrageous!”

“I guess you don’t want it, then.”

“You greedy old snatch-penny! Who else is going to buy it?”

“What’s that to me, when I can use it for fire starter? It’s fourteen shillings now,” said Rowley. “And if you say another word, it will be a guinea.”

Will, dug in his breeches cod counting fourteen shillings on the board. He had to control the impulse to grab them back.

“You’re in a foul skin, Will, what crawled up your bum and died?” Rowley said, sweeping the coins from the board.

“The weather,” was all Will could admit.

“Know what you mean; days like this the knee of that leg I left in Flanders gives me gip,” said Rowley. “And in consideration, I will tell you there’s a _si quis_ posted with your name on it.”

“Thank you. I’ll look for it.” Will took the packet, and without another word headed back down the nave.

At the west end of the cathedral, on the penitential wall, the posting of notifications, called _si quises_ , was an activity no authority, royal or ecclesiastical, had ever been able to suppress. All manner of notices—rewards for lost property; dates and times of meetings, public or private; advertisements such as _Aphrodite does itt behind ye Dog &Trumpet_—could be found there. Large or small, hand-written or printed, they were pasted over constantly, and stayed up until they peeled off, or someone pulled them down. Some of them, higher on the wall than a tall man could reach, were over a hundred years old.

Will searched, and eventually found a small card. Literally, someone had written on the back of a playing card: _WS - Meet mee heer att nune_.

WS? Could be anyone with those initials, but it was close to noon.

Will found place of the corner of a pier where he could lean against the wall out of the way and keep an eye on the nave walkers who were starting to clear out for dinner. He crossed his arms and listened to the murmur of the departing—they would all be back at three—and the cooing of the doves that nested in the capitals at the top of the columns. The smell of garbage and muck was strong. It was hard to imagine that this gloomy, falling-to-ruins pile had ever been the greatest House of God in Europe.

He could make out the lower portion of the rose window at the east end of the apse. The sun must have been breaking through the clouds outside. Gradually the window and clerestory began to glow with ruby, sapphire, emerald and citrine fire. The glory of it caught his breath but could not lift his spirits.

A girl with meat pies and oranges in a basket came by and he thought of buying an orange. The girl saw he was looking. She moved towards him. He shook his head. As much as imagining the spurt of juice, and clean smell as the skin broke open, made his mouth water uncontrollably, it was impossible. Between sixpence worth of paper, and the shillings he’d given Rowley, his budget was spent. He was going to be hard-pressed to send Anne her allowance.

In a last attempt to make a sale, the girl thrust her other wares for his attention. Again, he shook his head. Her milky breasts might be soft, but the sight of them ignited nothing like the wave of desire that had whelmed him in the nave. Nor was he about to spend the last penny in his pocket at the risk of goose bumps. The thought of his last penny recalled his need for new boots.

There would be no boots—not until the theaters reopened—probably not even then. Maybe something for Suzanna, though. The last time he’d been home, his daughter had begged for a poppet…she wanted one so badly.

The stream of people departing the cathedral had become a flood.

“It’s time to depart,” a voice whispered in his ear.

“Gah!” Will started abruptly, finding the black in black, who had so affected him was standing close to his side. Very close.

“Zounds, M’ Lord! I did not mark your approach.”

“It was not my intention to terrify you, but it’s best you come away.”

The orange girl had scurried off. There were shouts coming from the vicinity of Rowley’s stall, and Guardsmen, a troupe of eight, were marching up the nave.

“Wha’s’t to be a ruckus?”

“No, Master Shakespeare. You are to be arrested.” Without further ado, the man’s grip on Will’s elbow separated him from the wall and he was strong-armed into the swelling crush of fleeing people. Bumped and buffeted, he was pulled through the doors, and borne across the yard.  He didn't fight and, once he’d been swept through Paul’s Chain and was free of the crowd, he started running. Through the lanes and alleys, he made for the city wall but his breath gave out in Pissing Lane, and he had to stop.

“Not the most salubrious place to loiter,” said the man in black, who had kept with him the entire way.

Will, who was bent over, retching, could not disagree.

The sun, that had not cared to disclose his head for days, was now glaring from stagnant pools. Blinding to the eyes, it thickened the air, and brought the stench of sewage to a perfect pitch of ripeness.

“You know my name, M’ Lord,” Will gasped. “To pay my proper dutie, may I know yours?”

“Samael.”

“Lord Samael.” Will straightened with difficulty. “I thank you, for your timely intervention.”

“Master Samael, if you must. I’m master of none hereabout and claim no lordship in this country.”

“You’re a stranger?” Will said, feeling to be certain his wallet, and its contents, were still attached to his person.

“Always. I am depending on you to know where we can get a drink; speaking for myself, I could use one.”

To the east, the bell of Saint Olave's tolled the noon hour.

“So, could I,” said Will. “But not here, if you don’t mind. I suggest we repair to _The Sign of the Crown and Shield_.”

There were taverns at the corners of both ends of Pissing Lane, but small groups of people were still hurrying away from St. Paul’s. That was the least of the reasons Will suggested they repair elsewhere. While it was true The Crown was known to tolerate players, it was equally true Will kept a room nearby and the tapster would let him drink on tick. Most importantly, though, it was in Shoreditch, and the Liberty of Shoreditch lay outside of the jurisdiction of the lord mayor, the sheriffs of London and the Common Council. He couldn’t be arrested there.

Also, it wasn’t far.

The quickest way lay through Bishops Gate and along the path that ran by the old drain east of Finsbury Fields. When they arrived, The Crown was still packed with the dinner rush, but they were accommodated, butt-cheeks abeam, on a hard bench in tolerably short order.

Will waved at one of the pot boys. “Ralph!”

“It will be my pleasure to treat,” Samael said.

“Ralph, sirrah, your best brandy for me, and my friend here.”

The pot boy dashed away.

“Dinner as well, if it please you.”

“Thank you, m’Lor… _Master_ Samael. It pleases me.” Will was profoundly aware that he had not broken his fast that morning.

“’ere you go, Will.” The pot boy set two beakers of brandy in front of them. “You be eating in?”

“Yes,” said Will.

“May we examine the bill of fare?” said Samael.

“Just bring us the ordinary,” Will said.

Relieved of his evident confusion the boy vanished, and Samael looked to Will.

“Stew, bread, and a jug of ale, all at a fixed price. The only other choice is a marinated pig’s trotter. Trust me, you wouldn’t want it, even if you’d never seen the cask it came out of.”

“I accept your assurance of that.” Samael said, and began to look around.

They had entered _The Crown_ proper by a flight of stairs descending from ground level. In the daytime, light came from pierced trefoil openings high on the walls. The roof was supported by heavy stone vaults of considerable antiquity.

Samael pointed to at a pair of crossed swords hanging above the arch over their heads. “Are those real?”

“Yes,” Will said.

“I’ve always thought I would like to own a tavern, but this isn’t how I pictured it.”

“It was Halliwell priory before the Suppression; this was the rectory.”

“Fate bites its thumb at all of us, I suppose,” Samael said, and that was all.

He seemed satisfied, for the moment, merely to look around, and did not insist on conversation, for which Will was grateful. The brandy was warming his stomach and settling his nerves, but he wasn’t yet ready to consider the implications of the morning’s events. Happily, the pot boy came quickly with two bowls of stew, loaves, and a jug of ale.

They sopped up the stew with hunks of bread and neither spoke until both bowls were empty.

It was Samael who spoke, first. “That’s was good. Is there more?”

“There is.” Will waved two fingers at Ralph. Then he said, “Master Samael, if not for you, I would be dining with Duke Humphrey tonight.”

“You have a previous engagement?”

“No. I mean I would be eating alone tonight—not even trotters—and so, for the meal I thank you with all my heart, but I’m aware I owe you for more than dinner.”

“Believe me it’s I who am beholden.” Samael smiled.

Will’s stomach gave a flutter. “I know of no reason that should be.”

“I feel as welcome here, as if I were one of you.”

“Ah…”

Will nodded, as if he understood, but he was fully aware that not one of the scribblers, scriveners, nippers, sharps, acrobats, players, clowns, musicians, bear handlers, whores, thieves or out-and-out killers, who were undoubtedly present in The Crown at that moment, was that simple.

Most of them, particularly the players, used as they were to colorful clothing and the cast-offs of the mighty, recognized the cut and quality of Samael’s velvets. They proclaimed—nay, they screamed aloud—that he wasn’t one of them, if the fairness and delicacy of his complexion hadn’t. Clearly, he was a lord, perhaps Will’s patron and if they were ignoring him, it was for courtesy. But, to Will’s finely tuned ear, there was a low buzz, like a bass crumhorn, beneath the general murmur that whispered it would be wise not to linger here after dark. Setting a treacle tart like Samael in front of a pack of starving dogs was asking for trouble.

Evening, however, was not for some hours, and Samael seemed oblivious to the buzzing.

“Fore by I’m a stranger,” he said, “explain to me why you were going to be arrested?”

“There could be number of reasons but the book in my wallet is the most likely,” said Will. For the inquiry on Samael’s face, he added, “It’s nought but an old poor play.”

“Then why should anyone care?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Explain,” said Samael, and Will found himself explaining.

“The play, in the form of the copyright and player’s sides, was sold to John Day, the printer in Paternoster Row. He registered the work with the Stationers Company and printed a thousand copies. The manuscript—I presume the person who was in possession of it became greedy—fell into the hands of Richard Field in Chepe Side. He, too, ran off a thousand copies. Day found out about Field’s edition and brought an action at law. They both claimed the copyright. In the end, the judge fined each man ten pounds, ordered all copies be burnt, the plates melted down, and the manuscript proscribed.”

“Then how does it come to be in your wallet?”

“After such an outlay for paper and ink, no printer worth his salt would let a thousand books go up in smoke.” Will laughed. “Especially if they were banned. Since the judge gave the printers common cause, I expect they had their apprentices bundle a few real copies with wasted broadsheets. Those they handed over when guards came to collect them, along with a bit of honey for the pot.” Will rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “No one would have checked every bundle, and so they were burned. In the meantime, the books went to Frankfurt. Most of them anyway. A few would have been put by for collectors and good friends of the printers. I simply asked every bookseller I knew.”

Samael laughed. Will found he that was laughing, too.

“What of the manuscript?” Samael’s smile faded. “What’s the matter? You’ve gone the color of pot cheese.”

“Someone blabbed.” Will reached for the ale pot; it was empty. “I’ve a wife and children!”

“You’ve nothing to fear. When we left the Cathedral, Master Rowley was confessing to all who would listen that it was he who failed to burn the books.”

Will stared.

“Why would he do such a thing?”

“Between not burning books, and selling seditious ballads I expect he preferred to confess to the crime that wasn’t treason, for which the penalty is…”

“I know what the penalty is but how does that happen? You said you were master of none hereabout and claimed no lordship in this country.”

“You have a good memory, Master Shakespeare. No lordship here and now, yes, but I always have the power to protect what’s mine hereafter.”

“How am I yours?”

“You’re a poet. I suspected when I saw you in the nave and when you left his stall, I asked Rowley who you were. He said you were naught but a penny-a-word poet who would be clapped in jail before the day was over.” Samael’s gaze fixed on Will. “That makes you mine.”

“I…” Will looked away, as his prick and balls stood up to testify they did not doubt Samael’s words in the least.

“Tell me what it is you most desire.”

“To use my gifts to their fullest, to keep my wife and children in comfort. For that, with all my heart I would lie with you, an’ you asked me to.” Will felt his cheeks flare. “My God, for the second time today, I’m unmanned.”

“My Father has naught to do with it.”

There was a smell of bittersweet. Will felt Samael’s hand on his brow. It slid down his cheek and lifted his chin. The touch of Samael’s lips was soft at first, but they grew rougher, more insistent, and it seemed like to go on forever.

They separated—on Will’s part with a gasp—just as Ralph arrived. He thumped two fresh bowls of mutton stew in front of them and put down a foaming jug of ale. All the familiar din of The Crown came down with it: a loud calling of names, the halloos of new arrivals, the clatter and scrape of people eating, the smell of mutton stew, the stink of human sweat, and the stench of stone suffused with centuries of wood smoke…

In all the confusion and commotion, Will realized, not one person here had seen him kiss a man full on the mouth.

No, he had not kissed any man.

Samael’s eyes, glowing like embers, had lit him on fire, Will touched a finger to his lips. He could feel Samael’s tongue still flickering in his mouth and, most certainly, growing cold in his purse was the emission it had drawn from him.

“Eat,” Samael said. “You’ll need your strength; we’ve a bargain to seal.”

“My Lord, I have no bed…nothing worthy of you…”

“Where do you sleep?”

“I’ve a room with a loft and a palette under the eaves.”

“That will do. I don’t expect we’ll sleep much.”

They didn’t.

The only thing Will remembered clearly ever after was the bell of Shoreditch Church tolling five as they climbed the steps to his mean room.

Ever after, it was difficult to remember the order of how they had kissed and undressed. In later years on the verge of sleep, he would blush to recall that he had not washed that morning before running out in the rain. He would see Samael on his knees and feel the texture of the coarse linen with which Samael had wiped his feet and sluiced his prick and sac; there must have been water in the jug for that. When it happened, he had to ease himself before he could sleep.

As for Samael, the black doublet had been lightly padded and boned and Will’s roughened red fingers had undone every jeweled button. He had untied garter ribbons and removed the gorgeously embroidered netherstocks. He had undone the black bone buttons of the trunk hose with their velvet panes and silk stitching. He had untied the ribbons of the stiffened pouch and rolled down the hose. The shirt of the finest lawn had slipped from Samael’s shoulders, with no help from either of them. Will had been too busy, and Samael had been holding him to his task with both hands.

They had climbed the ladder to the loft and lain down on Will’s palette. By candlelight, they had explored each other’s body thoroughly, tasting, nosing into crevices, kissing, sucking, and licking each other clean. He had spilled himself in Samael’s lap, and willingly turned ass up, opening himself to receive Samael’s prick. He recalled the smell of bittersweet growing stronger, as it slid in and out, and then there was a rush of heat filling him like a broth of sunlight. When he recalled how that had felt, there was no need to touch himself.

Somewhere a cock was crowing.

“It’s almost dawn.”

The candle was a flickering stub and he woke to a salty smell and the taste of milk-of-thistles in his mouth. He blinked at the plump pink column so close to his eyes before he understood the acrid taste in his mouth was the creamy outflow from it Samael’s yard and he had been licking the tips of Samael’s fingers in his sleep.

“You must finish this.”

A gentle finger-flick to the back of his head, told him what he needed to do. It did not take long. He swallowed, then still sleepy replaced his head in the warm concavity of Samael’s girdle, snuggling against his side. Samael stroked his head.

At the sound of a page turning, Will’s eyes flew open and he sat up.

“You rifled my wallet!”

“Did you expected me to believe it wasn’t the manuscript you were after?”

“It’s my play,” Will said, but there was no rancor in his complaint. To look at the smooth planes of Samael’s breast and belly and to think such a flawless creature had stayed beside him as he slept.

“It’s good, except for a dreary ghost, wailing Ewww! Revenge! Hamlet Revenge! Dripping ichor all over the arrases and making trouble…”

“He doesn’t drip ichor all over the arrases. Anyway, his brother murdered him.”

“How do you know?”

“He says so.”

“Who would accept a ghost’s unverifiable word? They’re naught but jealous, bitter revenants; always a reason someone put them down. Consider this Claudius; he’s the better king for he settles young Fortinbras’ hash without going to war. For that, even murdering his brother, he gets my support.”

“He stole his brother’s wife.”

“How stole? She was a widow; he married her on the advice of his council and, you will pardon me, they seem very happy together.”

“She was happy with her first husband.”

“Who is it says so? Nowhere does she talk of her feelings. Through the whole she is trying to reconcile her family, and yet the way the ghost and young Hamlet work her over sets my skin crawling. As for Ophelia…”

“What of Ophelia?”

“Seems a chaste and pleasant maid; a bit wet...”

“Polonius?”

“He’s a well-meaning old goat, full of wise saws... He talks too much. They are good people and yet between them the ghost and Hamlet do them down to death.”

Will reached for the manuscript. “I’ll rework it.”

“Tomorrow will be time enough. Lie here with me.” Will lay back down in Samael’s arms. The cock crowed again. _“The hour is almost come, when I to sulphurous and tormenting flames must render up myself. Remember me…”_

“I will remember you.”

Again, the cock crowed; the candle guttered and went out.

 

 _Finis_  
_24 April 2018_


End file.
